Short Crick Poems

colloquialism to say is quite the trick
tells where your from by words that you pick
with diplomas on the wall
my friends I appall
when I go fishing down at the crick...

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A fellow from the country name Nick
Had a place to fish he caught real quick
When asked the place where
With dread he did share
Not stream or creek but the where a crick...

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Forceful, unforgiving claws, deep in the earth they dig
Upwards, upwards, breaking more than simply twigs
Cracking crevices, zags, zigs
A roar, a shake, a crick, crig...

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Happy each morning as poop on a stick
Happy as smooching with a cute li'l chick
Grabbing and groping
Probing and scoping
Had a wonderful time till my back got a crick...

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Happy each morning as poop on a stick
Happy as smooching with a cute li'l chick
Grabbing and groping
Probing and scoping
Have a wonderful time till in my back gets a crick


© Jack Ellison 2015...

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At almost eighty-three, girlies still turn my head
In spite of a neck crick, ignore the pain widespread
A small price to pay
For the yummies on display
Instead of screams of pain, they're screams of joy instead...

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The Old Mrs Cathleen Crick was a great freak
                         She hired a robomaid she was so sick
                                Robo broke her china cup
                                Powdered it for a make-up
                     Then left house in haste, what a robotrick!...

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Say When Flynn

Now that Flynn resigned,
Where else can he be consigned;
Removed from my mind.

What he left behind
Won't receive a Valentine;
Shivers up my spine.

Next who will Trump pick;
Common sense hope has a lick;
Not end up the crick.

James Thesarious Hilarious Horn
Retired Veteran and Precarious Poet...

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Th' Crick is dryin’ Up.

Ah got this Stick, ah call a Tree, stuck in th' mud:
Decorated it with dental floss, well za could
‘Cause there’s so much of the stuff in the dead weeds out back
An’ th’ Tree pret’ near always stays stuck there, ‘cept for when a strong wind blows up.

That little mud tea trickle that remains a’ the Crick, ah call ‘Trump Soup’....

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Do you know the pain inside

It holds me prisoner as I hide

Crippling strains I cannot shake

Cries of horror and moans I make

Aches of discomfort that follow me around

Cramps of agony that bring my knees to the ground

Stinging throbs and a torturous prick 

Convulsions twinge of a distressful crick

With torment and burning of my injury

Irritation and sadness of a living agony...

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The crick of crickets
Sounds of late summer swan songs
Lightening bugs---------lights out
Clear cloudy skies, cool front nights
Windows open, Fall sensations waking
Seasonal transitions nearby
Mother Nature announces her why
Causal changes on the way
Cryptic storms before the calm
Bely our human hearts alarm
Can we make the supreme amends 
Needed to become universal friends
Keping all from needless, useless, endless harm....

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Clue of Age

I sat, in the garden; took in its surrounds !
View, the wizened crooked wooden fence;
drooped with a crick, a downward glance !
The back of my hands, a reflection of time,
Brittle skinned, blue veined unsteady;
An exhaled breath, of Oh ! a map of
lines, a journey of time passed,was mine; 
Turned palms up, no Gypsy teller could see,
my journey, its broken fence, and satsified;
I made no whispered, reaction, or defence.
...

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He is down for scheduled maintenance
for a minor refit and tweak
for all the words he has to speak.

Ghost must adjust new software.
Old bones given new clothes.
Shuffling poetry tuned tight to walk upright.
Night and day, cogs have been turning, turning,
mind oil has been burning,
now time has developed a crick in the neck.

However, he is doing fine.
The Muses and their staff
will get back to you
just as soon
as they bring him back on-line....

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